


Post-Apocalypse

by 5ivex5ive



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s07e22 Chosen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5ivex5ive/pseuds/5ivex5ive
Summary: If you went by the movies, you’d expect that the night before the probable end of the world would be when everybody cuts loose.  But I’ve lived through a fair few apocalypses… apocalypsi… anyway, a number of these thingies.  And the truth is that it’s afterwards when things get truly wild.
Relationships: Faith Lehane/Buffy Summers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever, and my first attempt at creative writing in something like 20 years. Fuffy is truly my ride-or-die OTP, and it suddenly occurred to me that if *I'm* frequently sad that there's no new Fuffy fic, then I'm probably not the only one.
> 
> So, whoever you are--if you're out there--this one's for you. I hope that you enjoy it, and that you can forgive my errors, my inexperience, and my total lack of plan. My trash is your trash, and comments are welcomed.

I drag myself up the steps and board the bus. I know what my eyes are scanning for before I’m even conscious I’m doing it. They come to rest at the back of the bus, where Buffy sits alone, resting her forehead against the window glass, a blank stare fixed on nothing in particular.

Everyone speaks in hushed tones. Maybe it’s pain and exhaustion, or maybe it’s awe at what we just did. Or maybe it’s fear that if we raise our voices, we’ll wake up, and it won’t be over. We won’t have won. We won’t be about to drive away from the big-ass smoking crater that used to be Sunnydale.

I don’t know which of us is more surprised when I slide in next to her and casually put my knees up on the back of the seat in front of us. Like I used to do on the way to school so long ago--back before I could  _ spell _ apocalypse, much less prevent one. 

_ What am I doing? _ After all that’s happened, after all she’s lost--I’m the last person who should be next to her right now. I’m not naive enough at this point to think I’m important enough for her to  _ hate _ me or anything, even with our history. A hell of a lot has happened between then and now, after all. I just figure she kind of  _ nothings _ me, you know? Have I just completely lost voluntary control of my legs?

And anyway, what could I possibly say to her? I mean, okay. It’s not like I haven’t played through a thousand different scenarios in my head--I had a lot of time in prison to think. Most of those imagined conversations ended with yelling and blows. If I’m honest, the ones I thought up after lights out usually ended up with me frantically trying to rub one out without any shaky breaths or telltale squeaks of the bunk alerting Adeyemi. My cellmate had been very clear that she’d love to help me scratch that particular itch. I can’t say I wasn’t tempted--she had luminous black skin and large, dark, almond-shaped eyes--but I knew better than to shit where I eat. Or, more precisely, to shit where I shit and sleep.

B clears her throat softly, and I crash back to the present and realize her green eyes are locked on mine. Of course they are, dumbass! You just sat down next to her and have been silently staring at her for God-knows how long at this point!  _ Shit. Shit. Say something. Anything. Literally any words would be good. _

“Uhh…” I finally hear myself manage. Fuck. There’s little gold flecks in her eyes that I haven’t seen in years and years. Because I haven’t been this close to her in years…

“Hey” she says, and I realize that she’s smiling.

“Hey.” I reply at last, and suddenly we’re laughing.  _ Really  _ laughing. For the first time in I don’t even know how long. B laughs so hard there’s tears in her eyes, and then it happens: she snorts.

That’s the sound that breaks the spell, and the library-like hush of the bus is transformed into cheers and hollering and delirious laughter. We’re alive. Wounded, homeless, grieving, but alive.

… and Buffy  _ snorts _ . 

As the bus pulls away in a cloud of dust, I’m thinking we might could all use a few drinks when we get to civilization. I know I could.


	2. Chapter 2

I can only imagine what those poor fast food workers thought when a busload of slayers, caked in dirt and blood, descended upon their burger joint as soon as they opened this morning. The horde bore down on them like swarming locusts, and we ate what must have been a truly terrifying amount of food. I hope Giles tipped them well.

“When I worked at the Doublemeat Palace,” I say to Faith absentmindedly as I carefully peel off the wrapper of my third burger, “there was nothing worse than seeing a bus pull in.”

“You worked at the Doublemeat Palace?!” she exclaims gleefully through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger. I nod, remembering--not for the first time--how much she had missed. “I bet you looked so cute in that ridiculous little hat!”

Cute? I probably misheard her. Her mouth _was_ full, after all. I chatter on while she stuffs her face, never glancing up from her tray and thus oblivious to my staring. Oh, yeah. Did I mention I keep catching myself looking at her? It’s like my eyes have a mind of their own. Stupid eyes! I think she caught me in the act a few times on the long overnight trek through the desert. Surprisingly, she hasn’t commented on it beyond a quick quirk of her eyebrow. Not that I’m disappointed, or anything! I could do without the lewd suggestions, thank you very much!

For hours, I’d told myself that the whole weird gazing thing was just because there was nothing to see out the windows, and it was so dark on the bus that her form was really all I could make out anyway. Yet here I am, taking full advantage of the opportunity to study her unnoticed under this flickering fluorescent light.

A lot has changed in--what has it been--four years? If anything, Faith looks younger now, without the dramatic make-up, the slutty clothes, and the bad girl act. The black leather pants and jacket are gone, but the doc martins are still there. They’re probably the very same ones, I realize, and I ignore the weird knot that thought conjures in my belly. Her dark waves are pulled back into a loose ponytail, the eyeliner from who-even-knows-how-long-ago smudged. Her dark jeans are ripped, and the t-shirt she bought at a truck stop has an American flag on it. If I tried to pull that off, I’d probably look like a homeless raccoon, but somehow Faith looks almost _cool_.

And that’s when it happens. A glob of ketchup runs down Faith’s chin, and before I can stop it, my hand shoots out with Slayer speed--all on it’s own!--and I wipe it off with my finger. You can bet she noticed _that_! Her eyebrows shoot up, and our eyes lock. I need to say something, do something to diffuse the situation, but my brain is skipping like a scratched CD, and--

“You like that? Probably a familiar sight, what with your fetish for vampi…” Faith trails off and goes pale, freezing like a terrified animal. Her jaw sets. I take a deep breath and get ready to fall into the familiar dynamic. You know the drill: I act all high and mighty, she digs in her heels, and we’ll remember that these companionable hours were just a post-apocalyptic aberration; really, we can’t stand each other.

But then she surprises me: she _apologizes_.

“B… Buffy… I’m really sorry. I was just trying to be funny, and I didn’t mean anything by it, and… I’m really sorry about Spike.”

She winces, preparing for the tirade we both know is coming. Instead, I shock her and myself both, and--for the second time in twelve hours--I burst into hysterical laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

We’re finally back on the highway, and let me tell you, that might’ve been more of an achievement than defeating The First. In the end, G-man snatched Red’s 10 gallon barf bucket, stuck it right at the top of the stairs, and proclaimed that anybody who needed to piss that badly could feel free. There was a time I would have called that bluff and popped a squat just for the reactions. But I’m full, and I’m tired, and B was still in the middle of what seems to be a pretty exhaustive retelling of the Scoobies’ adventures while I’ve been gone.

To be honest, I’m starting to wonder if she hit her head in the battle. Or maybe I did. Or maybe there was some kind of spell? I know we’d been gearing up for war and everything, but since I showed up, we’d barely exchanged two unnecessary words. But she’s been chattering away animatedly ever since we stood in line for our burgers. Like a full-on ear beating! She even dragged me to the bathroom and talked while she peed, for chrissake. I helplessly followed her to a corner booth and tried to cover my bewilderment by focusing on my food; still I could feel her eyes on me.

Not just _her_ eyes, either. Me sitting down next to her on the bus yesterday could’ve been a one-off, but the others were starting to notice, throwing sidelong glances over B’s oblivious head. Wood (who _definitely_ needs to be dropped off at a hospital once we get into town, now I think about it) tried to catch my eye, but I wasn’t having any of it. I’m glad he made it out, of course, but if there’s a nice way to say “Hey, I only fucked you because I thought it was gonna be the last chance for one or both of us,” I haven’t come up with it yet.

Anyway, what with all the staring everybody was doing, I was well and distracted when I made that dumbass vampire comment. I thought I’d fucked it up for sure, but--adding more evidence to the concussion hypothesis--she had only laughed. My relief had temporarily overshadowed the surprise that had led to my oral diarrhea, but not for long. She stalwartly plunged back into her retelling of some singing curse from years back, but I didn’t miss the pale blush creeping up her neck.

I let her lead me down the long aisle of the bus, and shove me into the window seat. I’m no fool; I see where this is going. What I don’t understand is: _why now_? Our moment passed us by years ago, somewhere between Vampire Lover 1.0 and my taking up residence in Crazy Town. Is it a rebound thing? Is it called rebounding when your undead boyfriend martyrs himself?

Not that it really matters, I guess. Since I first laid eyes on her, there’s never been any hope for me. Even when I hated her, I loved her. She was everything that I wanted to be, she had everything I wanted to have, and she was everything I wanted to have. First, it drove me crazy. Later, it brought me back. And yesterday, I thought I’d get my final redemption by giving my life for it. For her. But that honor went to Spike, and I can’t even bring myself to hate him for it.

My thoughts continue to swirl. I don’t even notice that B has stopped talking until her head drops heavily onto my shoulder, and I realize she’s asleep. I allow myself to enjoy the gentle weight of her and the soft breath on my sleeve. I’m distantly aware of the bright glare of the noonday sun through the window, the low hum of voices ahead of us, and the steady vibration of the tires over the road. I’m asleep before I know it.


	4. Chapter 4

If you went by the movies, you’d expect that the night  _ before _ the probable end of the world would be when everybody cuts loose. But I’ve lived through a fair few apocalypses… apocalypsi… anyway, a number of these thingies. And the truth is that it’s  _ afterwards _ when things get truly wild.

That’s the clear and totally obvious reason that I volunteered to room with Faith when we were divvying up the motel rooms. There are other perfectly reasonable explanations, too. Willow and Kennedy aren’t going to waste any time before, as Faith so eloquently put it, “getting on down to pound town.” and Dawn claimed Xander’s room before anyone else could get in a full breath. And, sure, as recently as two days ago I might have objected on the grounds that she’s 17, but I’ve got plenty of totally rational reasons for why I didn’t. Numero uno: Xander could really use the company, and Dawn could talk the ear off of… something with very firmly-attached ears. Numero Dos: it’s  _ Xander _ . Numero Three: Dawn is 17, and she would waste no time loudly proclaiming to everyone who would listen how hypocritical that makes me, considering what  _ I _ was up to at 17 years old.

I made every one of these points to Willow when she pulled me into the dressing room at the mall, but she just gawked at me and said something about the Nile not just being a river in Egypt.

So that’s how I ended up in this grungy motel room trying to cut the tags off our new clothes while Faith snores face down on the queen-sized bed. Of course, Giles wanted to have a meeting tonight to decide What Next, but he grudgingly accepted that he was outvoted everyone-to-one. Result: tonight, most of us will be walking up the street to a dive bar Faith spotted on the drive in. Hence the mall trip, since most of us have the clothes on our backs, and those clothes--and our backs--have seen better days.

Old Buffy would’ve balked at the practical, barely-fashionable items I walked away with, but my thighs started sweating at the thought of combining pleather bus seats and red leather pants. So it’s looking like me, these jeans, and this red blouse are going to be seeing a lot of each other for a while.

Faith had scoured clearance racks until she emerged with her prize: a pair of dark jeans nearly identical to the torn ones she’s been wearing and a simple white tank top that showed a lot less cleavage than one might have hoped--expected. I’d barely had time to wonder about her frugalness… frugality… cheapness when she practically ran to the till with a black leather jacket. I run a finger down the path of the silver zipper and remember an uncommonly cool night a long time ago, in a town that doesn’t even exist anymore, when a lonely, basically homeless, traumatized barely-16-year-old girl took off a jacket much like this one, and put it over my shoulders. My shoulders--which were only bare in the first place because I had chosen to dress impractically. Her jacket--which I only now recognize was probably the only thing of value that she owned...

Anyway, I better get some sleep if I’m planning on partying like I just saved the world.


	5. Chapter 5

I’ve shown quite a few straight/bicurious chicks a good time in my day. Not to brag or anything, but that’s saying something, as I spent three of my 21 years behind bars. It was all good; everybody knew the score--and it always went down the same way, plus or minus a few details. We drink. We dance. They pretend they’re not flirting. I keep the heat up. They act like they’re drunker than they are. They shyly invite me back to their apartment, their mom’s house, their dorm room; I accept and rock their world. The braver ones reciprocate, sometimes. The shier ones blush, and their relief is palpable when I let them off the hook (which I think says more about dudes than it does about me).

The aftermath is a little trickier with girls than guys. I never think twice about kicking a dude to the curb after I get my rocks off. Chicks always require an exit strategy. Gotta pick up on what their post-sex vibe is, you know? Some of them are grateful if I pull up my jeans, tell them it was great, and get out of dodge. Others want a brief snuggle and an excuse about how I have to work early the next day. Every now and then I’ve had to sneak out after they’ve fallen asleep. When that happens I leave a note: It’s not you, it’s me. You were amazing. Draw a heart or leave a lipstick kiss, and close the door carefully behind me.

Nothing has prepared me for this situation, though. Getting down with Buffy Fuckin’ Summers when we’re sharing the same ride and the same motel room for an indeterminate amount of time is basically the  _ definition _ of shitting where I eat.

But there’s no point in pretending I’m not fixing to take a big steaming dump all over my life. Just when I thought there might be a place for me here among the new Superfriends, wherever they wind up. Contrary to popular belief, my impulsiveness isn’t usually due to a lack of foresight. Sometimes, I just know in advance what I’m going to end up doing anyway, so I figure--why fight it? That, my prison shrink said, is what we call a “self-fulfilling prophecy.” At the time, I had myself a little laugh; after all, how much could a guy like that possibly know about prophecies? I had to admit the truth of his words eventually, though, and that they’re as hard to thwart as any other type of prophecy I’ve come up against.

So, we’re going to fuck. I don’t know if B knows it yet. I don’t know if it’ll be today or a week from now. But I do know it’s inevitable. I never asked Angel whether he regretted it, because I knew the truth would shame him. He’ll probably hate me when he finds out, but at least there’s somebody out there who will understand why I’m running full-tilt towards a cruel, familiar knife aimed at my gut with a big, stupid grin on my face.

On that note, it’s time to see B’s reaction to my new jacket after she’s had a few.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re gloating awfully hard considering you’re beating a guy with only one eye” I can’t help but comment. 

“Thank you!” Xander exclaims while adjusting his eye-patch and scowling at Faith, who is still crowing over her latest victory.

“Was he any better when he had both eyes to work with?” she asks, grinning up at me through her hair as she lines up her next shot.

Before I can form a reply, Xander interrupts. “Anyway, best three out of five?”

“Maybe in a bit, X-man. I need another drink.” came Faith’s reply, though she never breaks eye-contact with me. When finally she turns and heads off towards the bar, I slip off my stool and follow her without a thought until suddenly she turns and asks, “Did you want something, B?” 

Thinking quickly, I reply in what I hope is a convincingly casual way, “Yeah, actually, can I have what you’re getting?”

It wasn’t even out of my mouth, and I already knew it was a mistake. I’m already drunk enough that my feet are running after Faith without asking permission from my brain. And I know better than to think she’ll let me off the hook. The grin she’s giving me is positively predatory. Does that make me her prey?

Two shots of whiskey and 15 minutes later, I find myself frustrated. Faith is sitting in a disgusting yellow armchair with her feet up on a greasy coffee table, telling prison stories to Dawn and Xander and Willow and Kennedy, who are all listening with rapt attention. Her voice is animated and her motions smooth and fluid. She must be feeling the alcohol, too, because her cheeks are rosy, and she’s taken her leather jacket off and draped it over the back of her chair. She somehow looks almost catlike in the dim light. I can’t take my eyes off of her, but she hasn’t spared a glance for me in like 5 minutes.

I remember the first night we met. Something about her threw me off my game, and I could only say stupid valley girl shit about nonfat yogurt. Back then, just like tonight, I felt so jealous of the attention my friends were giving her. But I know now that’s not  _ really  _ what it was then, and that’s not what it is now, either. I’m not dumb.

Well, I  _ was _ dumb. I was all wrapped up in Angel and trying to be Normal (ha!), and I just couldn’t deal with one more weird thing about me. I was so focused on how she made me feel that I never stopped to think about what she needed. I knew she was all bluster, but I didn’t think it all the way through. I didn’t think about how I was all she had, because no matter how much was on my shoulders, I never had to bear it alone. She  _ always  _ did.

It’s easy to see now how things happened the way they did. Faith would be the first to point out that she’s ultimately responsible for her own actions. But the Council, me, and Giles all have to share in some of the blame. A 16 year old girl left to sleep in a roach motel, with nobody ever asking how her meals got paid for? And  _ she  _ got shit for shirking  _ her _ responsibility?

I look over at Willow. It’s far from a stretch to say that she has as much on her conscience as Faith. But we didn’t turn our backs on  _ her  _ at her darkest moment. But we--I--left Faith in jail to rot. Yet when we needed her--when  _ I _ needed her--there she was. Asking nothing, accepting the cool welcome she was given.

And when it was all over? She sat next to me on the bus.

My lips are tingling from the alcohol, and my mind is fuzzy, but my sudden realization is so stark and clear that I swear I hear a puzzle piece snapping into place.

You know what? Fuck it. I’m drunk enough to make this happen.

I leave my position against a column and walk over to where Faith is sitting. She looks up at me quizzically as I slip on her jacket and perch on the arm of her chair, but she doesn’t pause in her story. She pretends not to notice when I start running my hand up and down her spine, but I feel her tense up--just for a moment--before leaning into my touch. It’s barely perceptible, but it’s unmistakable.

Faith may be pretending like nothing out of the ordinary is going on, but the rest of the gang is doing a piss poor job of hiding their surprise. I feel the blush creeping up my neck, but I keep my eyes on Faith as she describes--in great detail--clearing hair out of the shower drains in prison.


	7. Chapter 7

We all know I’ll give her anything she wants, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for her.

Why should I do all the work, just so that later Buffy can tell herself the lie that she didn’t want This, didn’t want Me? She can tell her friends whatever she likes. That she was drunk or swept up in the moment. That I took advantage; that she didn’t want it--not  _ really _ . But if B’s going to regret tonight, I want her to know, in the deepest possible way, that she has nobody to blame but herself.

I push open the door with my shoulder and step aside. B dashes in and flings herself onto the bed--still in her shoes and my jacket--and looks coyly up at me. Her cheeks are flushed a lovely pink that she’s doubtless blaming on the alcohol, and those green eyes are sparkling with excitement.

This is going to be fun.

After closing the door and sliding the chain in place, I drop casually into the dilapidated armchair and start slowly unlacing my boots. She’s studying me so hard I swear the tiny hairs on my body raise in response to the electricity of her gaze. So intent is her stare that, when I kick a boot off, the  _ thunk _ of it against the carpet makes her jump. I politely ignore it.

When I pick up the remote and start flipping through channels, I have to stifle a laugh at the petulant little sigh that escapes, apparently beyond her control. I steal a glance to my right to find her chewing her perfect lip and scowling slightly at her nails. I’ve just about decided to relent and put her out of her misery when instead she speaks.

“There’s plenty of room over here, Faith.” It comes out a bit more shrill and a little less cool than she probably intended, but it lets me know she’s still in the game. That’s all the encouragement I need.

I mumble something about how we probably shouldn’t sleep in these clothes, and she takes the hint and we change into pyjamas. I don’t turn away as I strip naked before throwing on some dingy grey sweatpants and a black undershirt. I’m impressed that B doesn’t avert her gaze and gives as good as she gets, keeping her eyes on my face as she shrugs my jacket from her shoulders and lays it carefully on the dresser before peeling off the rest of her clothes.

So much has changed since I took that body for a spin. Scars I don’t remember interrupt the smooth pale skin. Some are pink and raised, and others are thin and colorless, a reminder that a lifetime has passed. Long enough for a weapon I didn’t know about to cause an injury I’d never heard about. Long enough for the skin to knit itself back together in an angry red line. Long enough for the flesh to remodel itself, smoothing away the ridge. I wonder if she thought the same thing when she saw the scar she gave me, now almost-invisible--but not to me, and not to her.

Other things, though, are just the same as I remember. A sweet scattering of freckles peppering her shoulders and the gentle curve of her small breasts. Her nipples a pink so pale they’re almost colorless until teased to a rosy arousal. Narrow waist, bony hips, and neatly trimmed curls where the tops of her slim, strong thighs meet. To her credit, she doesn’t rush as she pulls on those impossibly tiny shorts with little hearts on them, or the soft, stretchy powder-blue tank top. 

She’s still perfect, is what I’m saying. I never doubted she would be.

My reverie must’ve taken a little longer than I thought, because I snap back to reality when a pillow, thrown with Slayer strength and accuracy, slams into the side of my head. She’s already in bed with the covers pulled up, smirking. I grab the pillow before it hits the disgusting floor and take the bait. I pounce on her, and within minutes we’re involved in a vicious pillow fight, giggling, panting, wrestling, and everything else adolescent Xander’s horny imagination could concoct.

At last, B is exactly where we both want her. She’s on her back, and I’m on top, straddling her hips and grinning down at her. She starts bucking and snarling through her laughter, and I almost fall off, but it’s game over now. I grab a fistful of hair at the back of her head, winding my fingers tight against her scalp; she gasps.

Her eyes roll, for just a moment, but she doesn’t try to hide it, and I don’t pretend I don’t see it. “Is there something you wanted?” I ask, intentionally patronizing.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” she asks, pouting playfully.

I ignore her question, and repeat my own.

“I said, was there something you wanted?” I twist her hair cruelly. Her eyes darken and shine with an almost childish defiance that l have always secretly loved.

“You should kiss me.” She says, smirking.

“No,” I reply.

“ _ Yes _ .” She whines.

I simply ignore her.

She starts to strain to raise up, fighting to meet my lips. An hour ago, any of this would’ve been proof enough she wanted it. Not anymore. I force her head back down to the pillow.

_ “Yes! _ ” she demands insolently. She pulls again, but I hold her fast, keeping my gaze hard and steady, and I respond, quietly, patiently, “No.”

I don’t know how long we go back and forth like that. My hand is cramping. I know her scalp must be screaming. But now, every time she fights against my grip, she grinds her hips up into mine. Her breath catches in her throat, her eyes are unfocused, and her mouth-- _ fuck _ \--her sweet, soft mouth hangs slightly open in a blissful little smile.

I bend down, keeping just barely out of her reach, so that with every word my breath tickles her lips. “Are you going to ask for what you want now, so I can give it to you, or are you going to be a brat and keep us from what we both need?” 

I’m sure she meant it as a defiant joke, but what came out sounded like raw desperation, “Aww c'mon,  _ daddy _ , don’t make me beg.” 

I suddenly pull back, keeping her in place below me, and B lets out an feral groan. I meet her eyes with a stern stare, and she breaks.

She starts begging, and she doesn’t stop, even as my mouth crashes into hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-not-sorry to leave it hanging there!

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm about halfway done or more at this point, and I haven't gotten bored or discouraged yet. More--including some porn--on the way!


End file.
